Progeny
by Vaysh11
Summary: Being Harry Potter's son has never been easy. Neither has been being Draco Malfoy's son. Harry/Draco, Scorpius and Al Severus


**Progeny**

He was Harry Potter's son. Of course. But his parents' fear of snooping reporters from The Daily Prophet was ridiculous. Certainly it was not necessary to split up and have Dad Apparate with him onto platform nine and three-quarters, while the rest of the family was following them using the Floo in the station's magical waiting room. And yes, Dad had saved the world from that wizard gone all Dark, Voldemort, but really, it had been twenty years ago. He just wished his parents would relax about it, and sent him and his brother off to school without much ado, like all the other parents did.

"Where are they?" He craned his neck, trying to make out anything in the thick clouds of white steam coming from the scarlet engine of the Hogwarts Express.

"They'll be here," his Dad assured him, placing warm hands on his shoulders. The boy turned and looked up into his Dad's face, the famous scar still bright red on the pale skin of his forehead. Not for the first time the boy wondered how he could look so much like his father: the same colour hair, the same eyes; two years ago the boy even had got glasses, just like his father. Then his Dad tried to ruffle his hair, and he moved away quickly. He was twelve, for Merlin's sake, no longer a first-year to be coddled like a little kid. And Pritchard and Dobbs, with their parents, were standing right next to his Dad who was talking to Uncle Ron about driving one of those Muggle cars.

Dark shapes materialised in the mist, and the boy moved forward, waving excitedly. "There they are."

But it was only the grey-haired candy cart-witch, stepping out from underneath the black shape of the archway and moving up the platform. When she came close to them, she took something from the cart, golden-yellow little sticks with a purple skin, served on a small paper plate. They smelled delicious, rich and spicy, yet sweet. With a questioning look to his Dad, she held the snack out to the boy, offering him a tiny silver fork to eat with.

"Eggplant fries," she said, and there was a quick flash of gold when the boy looked up to see her grin. Somehow he didn't remember the woman's jaw being quite so heavy when he'd last seen her. "Something new," she added with a wheezy voice. "They are fried in Nogtail fat and salted with fleur de mer."

The boy reached hesitantly for the offering, put one of the fries into his mouth, then his face broke into a huge smile. "Brilliant!" One would think he hadn't had breakfast, the way he polished off the plate-full.

The witch grinned. "There's also carrot fries." She gave his Dad a pointed look, and with a sigh he reached for his purse.

"Always a new fad, isn't there?" Dad mumbled, handing over the coins.

The witch pocketed them with a smug smile and started piling sizzling orangey sticks onto another plate. "Well," she said, "you're certainly one to talk, Mr. Potter." This time she handed the boy a golden fork with the fries. For a moment he hesitated to take it, because Dad's body had gone all stiff. But then he thought that his brother would like the tiny fork and grabbed it quickly.

_Suiting colour for a Gryffindor_, he silently sighed, bemoaning not for the first time the fact that they had been sorted into different houses. Their parents had reacted in the mildly irritating way adults often had about them, his Father Owling back that it was good to see the Slytherin family tradition continued. Naturally, Dad had added that while tradition certainly was a good thing, there were some house traditions not worth keeping alive. He didn't mention the whole pure-blood thing, but of course this was what he meant. As if he and his brother hadn't spend all summer in France with Grandfather, who was quite scary when he started spouting off about the War and the Muggle-borns and how Dad just wasn't a real wizard, and how their progeny was little more than 'Mudblood-spawn' even if Scorpius had inherited the looks of a true Malfoy …

A drop of water landed in his carrot fries. The boy looked up to the high ceiling of King's Cross Station that ended right where they were standing. Dark clouds were billowing at the horizon, then a white flash split the sky, zigzagging through the clouds like the scar on his Dad's forehead, followed instantly by the muted growl of thunder.

"How odd, a thunderstorm in September," his Dad said, and his voice sounded funny. The boy followed his gaze, staring at the archway where three figures quickly emerged from the mist. His brother grinned at him, dragging his trunk along. Grandmother was at his side, clad all elegantly in purple, with the little round hat perched on her head, the one with the veil made from the tiniest of pearls which was the boy's favourite.

And then, there was Father.

He ran towards them, light flashing off his glasses, robes flying behind him, his eyes even darker than the thunderstorm approaching from the North.

"It's Skeeter!" he shouted, furious. "Get away from her, Harry! Get away from the cart!"

Dad grabbed him by the shoulders, hard this time, and twirled him around so fast, the carrot fries were flying all over the platform. Flashes of lightning exploded, so bright that the boy had to close his eyes against the white glare. Dark spots floated on the inside of his lids.

A heavy trunk was being dragged way too fast across the uneven pavement, then he felt the familiar warmth of his brother at his side. "Unbelievable, isn't it?" his brother said and nudged him gently into the side. "Took us forever to get here, and now those bloody reporters trap us right at the train."

The boy opened his eyes. Dad was standing between them and the cart, where Father had the witch at wand-point. Her hair seemed to have turned a dirty blonde, and a huge pair of glittering, blue-framed glasses had appeared on her nose. Beside her, a small, paunchy wizard with a boyish face was holding a huge camera to his face, continuously flashing in their direction.

"If you don't stop it, Creevey, I'll break that camera of yours," his Dad was hissing. At once, the explosions of light stopped.

"And you'd better have that Quick-Quote Quill stop spilling its slander right now, Rita. That is, if you want to keep that lovely double chin of yours intact." Father's voice was scathingly cold, he only sounded like that when he was having one of the Big Fights with Grandfather.

From around his Dad's side, the boy could see the acid-green quill dancing around the stacks of Liquorice Wands and Cauldron Cakes on the cart. While he was watching, it came to a halt and fell flat in a long shivering motion. Father withdrew his wand from the witch's throat, and there was an audible exhalation of relief from Dad.

The boy became aware that people had gathered all around them, other kids, witches and wizards, the conductor in his blue uniform with the huge golden buttons, Grandmother with her hat and veil, Aunt Ginny, Uncle Dean and little Luna in a white dress, a chocolate ice-cream cone in her hands, and her brothers Arthur and William, who were both in Gryffindor. There was some commotion in the crowd, as Uncle Greg was forcing his way through, using his sheer bulk to part the masses.

"Is it those two?" a hard voice behind them muttered. "The blond and the black-haired kid? Are they the abominations, children born by wizards?

The boy turned around quickly, but he couldn't make out the speaker amongst the people pressing in on them.

"Why are they _staring?_" he asked in a whisper and edged closer to his brother.

"Because of Dad, I guess." His brother shrugged. "It's always the same. You know, big war hero and all." He let out a small sigh, pushing a wild strand of dark hair out of his eyes.

There was an odd silence, the only sound the tip-tap of thick drops of rain falling onto the platform, onto the carrot fries, soaking them. Father and Dad turned towards him and his brother first, giving them the once-over, then they looked at each other.

Dad said, "No need anymore for the wand, Draco," but Father already moved and pointed his wand at the photographer. The boy never heard what spell he cast, for a flash of lightning ripped through the sky, followed immediately by a boom of thunder so loud, he thought the roof was collapsing in on them. He ducked his head against the gushes of rain, and when he looked up again, everyone was scrambling towards the train. The witch with the blue glasses was gone, only the photographer was still standing beside the cart, staring with unbelieving eyes at the smouldering remnants of his camera.

*

Later, when Scorpius and Al had settled in one of the train compartments with Prichard and Dobbs, they heard the familiar clattering coming closer in the corridor. Soon the witch poked her head in, her hair dripping wet, but with a huge smile that brought out the dimples in her cheeks. Scorpius didn't know how he could have ever mistaken her for the other witch, the one with the fake grey hair and the green quill.

"Ah," the witch said when she saw them, "the Potter-Malfoy boys! Pleasure to meet you, dears, now that I'm finally out of that closet. That Skeeter woman had me locked in there all morning, stole my cart, too. But wait until I file my complaint with the Prophet." She nodded several times, emphasising her words, then gestured towards the colourful array of sweets. "Anything off the cart for you?"

Scorpius felt for the two tiny forks in his pocket, one silver, the other gold. "I'll have Pumpkin Pasties for all of us," he said with a smile towards his brother and his friends. All was well.

* * *


End file.
